Hear the Wind Blow, Dear... (Vic Daniel Series) Page 3

  But the Castillos managed, if not to prosper, at least to more than survive. Ricky had a trade and excellent English as he had worked for an American-owned banana plantation back home. Most important of all, the Castillos had a sponsor, their Uncle Pepe, a well-connected businessman and American citizen who had not only helped them obtain their immigration papers but helped Ricky to prepare for the State of California civil servant's exam, which he easily passed. Ricky liked his work and was good at it, his wife had several Nicaraguan friends and their area of Inglewood, although violent, still retained enough middle-class families to give it some kind of stability.

  Chico, three years younger than Ellena, unmarried, a fierce patriot as his father had been, barely survived. After two years in the bush he was taken prisoner by a Guardia patrol near the Honduran border although at the time he was merely planting maize for the old widow who had let him use an empty hammock in her home. Then the Guardia proceeded to fry out Chico's brains, using a primitive hand-operated generator. Although Ricky wouldn't say so in front of his wife, I assumed that the Guardia had only started on his brains after they had finished frying off his balls.

  Pues. Time passes, as it does.

  Un dia (one fine day) what was left of Chico arrived on the Castillos' doorstep, thanks once more to the intervention of Tio Pepe and some of his mysterious business contacts. But Chico presented a considerable problem for the Castillos. Although most of the time he was docile and childlike he had occasional flashes of viciousness. Also, he wouldn't or couldn't enter any large building and to him the Castillos' small bungalow was a large building. Also, he had no papers. For a week Chico slept in a hammock in the garden then his brother-in-law installed him in a disused toolshed that was well hidden among the trees some two miles north of Wonderland Park in a part of the forest that naturally came under Ricky's area of responsibility. And there he had been, on his own, except for regular visits from his brother-in-law and once a month or so, his sister, for the past two years.

  'Maybe he wants to be caught,' Ricky said to his wife. 'When Mr Daniel said that I started to worry for him.'

  'Pobre Chico,' she said. 'Pobrecito.' She folded her hands on her tummy protectively and smiled sadly at me. I smiled sadly back at her. Pobre Chico is right. Poor all the chicos (and the grandes, if you don't mind) in all the lost paradises and filthy cities.

  'Well, he can't go on stealing sheep is one thing for sure,' I said. 'If it turns out it is him.'

  'I think it is,' Ricky said quietly. 'It's happened before.'

  'With sheep?'

  'No, other animals.'

  'What does he do with them?' I asked him. But Ricky wouldn't say, right then, he just shook his head in disapproval or pity or both.

  I took my leave a few minutes later after saying no thanks to coffee but many thanks to them and particularly Ellena for the fine meal. We had agreed that all three of us should pay Chico a visit as soon as possible and had set it up for the following afternoon after Ricky got off work.

  On the way back to the Valley I passed Hollywood Boulevard. On a whim, or more accurately on a sudden thirst, I turned south on it and stopped at the first bar I came to. It was called the Stagecoach. I wondered if it would take me somewhere I wanted to go but then, after standing on the corner there at Cherokee and Hollywood for a moment or two taking in the scene, I decided I'd settle for anywhere but where I was. Maybe it was pobre Chico's story, maybe it was the time of the month or the year of my life but it felt like one of those nights that held no promise, only memories and trouble. The fabled Hollywood Boulevard was as dirty as a Dead End Kid's face, gray as a wino's undershirt. And in the Stagecoach, no saxophones wailed in the background, no sad frail in silver lamé sat on the corner stool toying idly with a cocktail stirrer waiting for she knew not what. A black hooker in gold mini shorts sat on the corner stool, waiting for what she knew all too well.

  I had a brandy and ginger ale, then another one. The hooker made a great deal out of the simple chore of putting a quarter in the jukebox. I had another brandy and ginger. The hooker finally scored, and left with her client by the side door. I wondered if there wasn't somewhere some small town where the trains still stopped, where a smiling porter would help me down and direct me to Miss Lilly's, where only single gents stayed, where kids played on the Civil War cannon and the Town Hall clock was frozen at a quarter to four. Maybe there'd even be a sign in the window of the hardware store – 'Willing Boy Wanted'.

  What the hell. I don't get depressed often, but, 'Slice me and do I not bleed too?' someone once said. I think it was Yogi Berra.

  I moved on to Dave's Corner Bar over the hill and down in the Valley, like me, bandied a few words of wisdom with Bill over a couple of games of pool, had a quick one at the Two-Two-Two, then a couple of slow ones at the Three Jacks, then a nightcap at the Cloverleaf. Then I ran out of thirst so I went home, looked in on Mom, saw she was safely tucked up in bed, drank three glasses of water, then, more or less safely, tucked myself up in my little trundle bed.

  The following morning, II January, I broke the last of my New Year's resolutions – I swore at my mother, that dear little sweet gray-haired mother o'mine. I'm no purveyor of cheap gossip, no tell-tale, there's not one ounce of the catty in me but if there's one thing I hate it's when she eats melba toast at the breakfast table when I've got a hangover.

  When I arrived at the office I saw that for once the mail had got there first, so I popped into the Taco-Burger next door but two where Mrs Morales sold me a large coffee to go. As I've just mentioned, there's not a hint of the bitchy in me but was not the gorgeous Señora Morales carrying a touch more avoirdupois around the hips these days?

  Back at the office, I unlocked the massive Bowman & Larens safe that took up most of the washroom, then took out and set up both the computer and my electric typewriter just in case, then I attacked the morning post. Into the waste-basket went something beginning 'This will introduce you to the Studio City Jewish Over-Forties Singles' Club'. Following it went yet another unwanted offer from the Reader's Digest, this time for a series of imitation hand-tooled leather volumes depicting the history of the Old West. I reckoned I was already having enough problems with the New West. Out went 'America's Foremost painter of cats is proud to present for the first time a limited edition. . .' An ex-girlfriend of mine, Mae Schroeder, now Mrs Lionel B. Jefferies, had thoughtfully taken the time during her honeymoon in Mazatlán to send me a postcard of three pelicans winging their way into the Pacific sunset. I'd seen a lot of Mae the year before, then she'd upped and married a condo salesman. That says something about someone but I'm not quite sure what, or who. Then, oh lucky day, yet another cheery postcard, from a twerp I knew, a punk twerp, a nitwit named Sara who was up in Northern California visiting a friend of her late mother. 'Having wonderful time,' it read, 'Glad you're not here.'

  The phone rang, I answered it promptly. It was my landlord, my office landlord, Elroy.

  'If it's the rent, I paid already,' I said. 'Stop pestering me or I'll call a cop.'

  He laughed. He laughed a lot, Elroy. Of course he was very rich and usually very stoned, which makes it easier.

  'Got a mo, bro?' he asked. 'Cause if you do, I got a small problem.'

  'Well, I got a mo,' I said, shuffling through the last of the mail. No bills, but no new work, either. 'Want me to drop by?'

  'OK, but come up the back way, will you?'

  'Sure,' I said. 'Be right over.'

  I hung up, packed things away, tidied up, locked up and drove the short distance to my landlord's apartment building and when I say it was his, I mean he owned it, plus the development that included my office, plus several other buildings scattered through that part of the Valley known as Studio City. Not quite knowing what was up, I parked down the street a bit from his building, went into the alley alongside, through the service door and up six flights of the firestairs to his penthouse apartment. His doorbell cunningly played the first few notes of that Beatles numb
er, 'Yesterday'.

  Elroy let me in. He was a man in his early twenties, with an almost perfectly square, tanned, unlined face, his shoulder-length blond hair held neatly at the back by a small leather napkin-ring affair. He was usually to be found wearing shades, antique jeans, worn T-shirts and twenty-nine-cent flip-flops, but that morning he was in a dark two-piece suit, button-down shirt, tie and proper shoes.

  He led me into the front room, opened the french doors leading out to the balcony, then went outside and peeked cautiously over the low balcony wall. He gestured for me to join him, so I did. He pointed downwards. I looked downwards, through the retractable glass roof of the building's swimming pool.

  'See that?' he whispered.

  'Yes,' I whispered back. 'It looks just like a girl with nothing covering her top.'

  'It is,' he said. 'Come on.'

  We moved back into the sitting room and made ourselves comfortable, me on a canvas-covered sofa, he on a canvas director's chair.

  'That's not only a girl,' he said, 'that's a tenant, 2-B. Gloria Linnear. Gorgeous Gloria.'

  'So what's up with her?'

  Elroy sighed. 'Gorgeous Gloria is on the game,' he said. 'I wouldn't mind the occasional customer but she's turning so many tricks in her pad I'm thinking about putting in a checkin counter. Gorgeous Gloria must go.' He took a little silver hash pipe out of a pocket, lit up, took a hit and offered it to me. I declined.

  'Well, you're the landlord,' I said. 'Why don't you just chuck her out?'

  He sighed again, then smiled at me, or was it leered.

  'Because she's been up here,' he said. 'Often.'

  I raised my eyebrows as high as they would go.

  'You dog,' I said.

  'It's one of the trials of being a young, good-looking, rich landlord,' he said. 'It's not all fun, you know.'

  I said I didn't know and didn't want to.

  'Anyway, it was, needless to say, before I copped she was doing business, we got stoned a few times, had a laugh or two, a tear or two. So if I give her the axe, what do you think the first thing is she's going to do to me?'

  'Tell the Narcs you're a dangerous dope addict, like you are,' I said.

  'And that hassle I do not need,' he said. 'I already got done once for it a few years ago. So it can't come from me, the bad news. And I don't want to call the cops on her even if I could, what do I care what she does with her free time, am I a member of the Moral Majority all of a sudden? But I'm starting to get flak from all of her neighbors.'

  'So you thought you'd get old Vic to do the dirty work for you, eh?' I said. 'Typical. When would you like her out?'

  'End of the month?'

  'No problem,' I said. 'I'll think of something. When does she usually start work, if I may put it like that?'

  'After her swim,' he said. 'Like early afternoon.'

  'OK,' I said. 'I'll pop back to the office, pick up a few things, then come back and have a word with her.'

  'Amigo, you're my main man.' He got out of his chair and brushed some invisible lint off one trouser leg. 'Listen, if I haven't been my usual cheery self today it's because I got to go somewhere.'

  'I figured,' I said, getting up myself. 'Neat tie. Getting married? Going to church?'

  'Wrong,' he said. 'Going to the Forest Hills Funeral Home with my sister.'

  'Is it a year already?'

  He nodded. One year ago most of his immediate family including his father and mother had been killed when a drunk doing well over a hundred miles an hour skipped the central divider on the San Diego Freeway and collided head on with his family's car. Six dead in all.

  'Goddamn it,' I said. 'Well, don't forget to comb your hair first, it looks awful.' It didn't really but what else are you going to say?

  I left the way I came. I didn't see anyone on the way down. During the drive back to my office I had a little think about Gloria which led to a thought or two about another girl I'd once known pretty well who also made her living looking at ceilings, she was one of those rare Polish beauties that mining towns like Gary occasionally produce. She was dead now. A lot of people were dead now, but few died the way she did. I didn't have anything to do with her getting killed but I didn't have anything to do with her getting unkilled, either. It is apparent even to me that you can't rewrite history but you can't help wondering once in a while what would have happened if you had been smarter or quicker or tougher. Or somebody else. What the hell.

  I picked up the necessary at my office, then wasted a little time at a nearby hamburger stand, Fran's over on Del Monte, where they knew me well, leisurely disposing of three hotdogs, mustard and relish only, and a root beer, then I did a chore or two, so it was coming up to two o'clock by the time I got back to Elroy's. Again, I parked down the street a way as my Technicolor Nash wasn't exactly the type of vehicle a man in the profession I was about to adopt would be seen dead in.

  I went in the front this time, past the 'No Vacancy' sign, then out past the pool and up one flight to 2-B. When there was no answer to my polite knock, I tried again not so politely. Still no answer. I leaned my battered face against the door and said loudly, 'Miss Linnear, we know you're in there. Open up, please.'

  I heard some noises from inside, then the sound of a bolt lock being drawn back, then the door opened the few inches the chain lock would let it.

  'Miss Linnear. Good to see you. Moriarty, Vice.' I flashed her my badge and ID.

  'Can I see your ID again, please?'

  'Certainly.' I showed it to her again. It looked real enough because it was real, I'd wheedled it out of my brother one time, likewise the badge. When she was done looking at the ID she opened the door properly and took a look at me. I took a look at her right back and figured I easily got the best of the deal. What she saw was someone who was tall and, in the dark, handsome, as that idiot twerp Sara once put it, about the size of Conan the Barbarian but with slightly less muscle tone. And with a face out of a spare-parts catalogue. What I saw was a striking young girl who looked no more than twenty or so, with short, curly blond hair still a little damp, regular features and a beautiful mouth with just a touch of pink lipstick on it. She was wrapped in a man's bathrobe that was so long it almost hid her bare tootsies. Her toenails were pink, too. Gorgeous Gloria was right.

  'And what do you want?'

  'Just a quick word,' I said. 'It won't take but a moment. We can do it out here in the hall if you want, I don't mind.' I gave her a friendly grin. A friend of mine once said my friendly grins are about as friendly as a one-armed Scotsman in a boarding house at mealtime but he was in real estate and you know how those fellows exaggerate.

  'Well, I mind,' she said. 'Come in if you're coming.' I went in. It was just another apartment, but with potted plants hanging everywhere. In one corner was a stuffed giraffe, it must have been as tall as I was.

  'Now what,' she said, 'the third degree?'

  I opened up my windbreaker to get a notebook from the inside pocket and also to give her a peek at the Police Positive in the shoulder holster. I flipped the notebook open, not letting her see the pages were blank. Then I rattled off in a matter-of-fact monotone.

  'Seventh January 4.25. Male Caucasian, forties, car license number 835 BCC. Same date, 5.30, Caucasian, 85 Chevy . . .' and so on and so on. I did this at some speed so she wouldn't have time to really think about it as I was of course making it all up. Then I glanced over at the closed door leading to the bathroom and gave her a wink.

  She shook her adorable head.

  'The boys in blue,' she said, 'will get you every time. So what do you want from me? A free sample?' She licked her top lip. 'It would give you something to remember when you're old and gray.' She came closer to me and slipped her belt off. She came still closer. She was a little thing. She had lovely tanned little breasts. She smelt delicious.

  'I'm old and gray already, sweetheart,' I said, putting a little distance between us. 'Do yourself up, you'll get goosebumps and so will I.'

  'Gay power l
ives again,' she said scornfully. She took a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit up with a gold Ronson. She blew the smoke in my direction. 'So what's your plan, officer? You going to arrest bad old me?' She batted her eyelashes at me.

  'Nope,' I said. 'All I want is for you to find somewhere else to live. You've got til the end of the month.'

  She looked surprised. 'That's it?'

  'That's it, there ain't no more,' I said.

  'Well, scoobie-doo,' she said. 'All in all, I think I'd rather be arrested; I'd be back in time for the six o'clock news.'

  'Oh, but think of the hassle,' I said. 'Lawyer, bail bond, another few lines on your sheet. And there's nothing to prevent me from dropping by tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, as what's-his-name once put it.'

  'Well, what's-his-name can forget it,' she said.

  'And I can forget about whoever's in there,' I said, gesturing to the bedroom, 'if you're a good girl.'

  'All right,' she said. 'You don't have to go on and on. I do have a few brains left.'

  'Thank you, Miss Linnear,' I said, putting the notebook away and heading for the door. 'It's been a pleasure.'

  'Yeah,' she said. 'A million laugh. What I don't get is what's in it for you.' She looked at me suspiciously. 'Unless you're doing it for the boy wonder upstairs.'

  'Never heard of him,' I said. 'And there's nothing in it for me at all. I'm just trying to help my poor brother find a decent apartment in the neighborhood. He's handicapped, you see, polio, and he needs a place to live near where he works.'

  She shook her head. 'Ain't love wonderful,' she said.

  'Try and leave the place tidy for him, OK?' I said on my way out. 'He'd appreciate that.' She slammed the door behind me.